[Rationally speaking, they aren't far apart in terms of physical distance. Giorno stands just a few steps away, weight balanced uncomfortably against his dresser, fidgeting with his sleeve cuffs. But it feels enormous, somehow; nearly insurmountable. He just doesn't understand. Bits and pieces of what Giorno says make sense to him, but they come together to form an overwhelming, bewildering whole.]
[Giorno says they are friends. Which-- ... they are? They are friends, but their relationship is both more and less complicated than that. But how can he be that important to Giorno? They've... the truth is, they've known each other longer here. In another world, far removed from the one they know. In Giorno's story, he is the traitor; the one who turned his back on the ideals he fought for and their friends died for. Giorno's faith in him makes no sense. No matter how many times he has turned it over in his head since that morning in Sardinia, he just doesn't understand it.]
[He just-- he can't--]
[Abruptly, Fugo presses the heels of his hands into his eyes and takes a great, heaving breath. It's pointless, he thinks, to run in circles like this. He doesn't understand. He didn't understand back then either, did he. When his hands fall, his complexion is red and blotchy; he still seems far away, but closer than what he was. He pushes himself up to his feet, lurching forward before he can think better of it.]
Let me see. [He holds his own hands out, palms up. His expression is an odd mix of things-- worried, upset, uncertain. He doesn't know what to do or say to move forward. But, maybe-- it will be easier to figure out, without this distance between them.] Please.
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[Giorno says they are friends. Which-- ... they are? They are friends, but their relationship is both more and less complicated than that. But how can he be that important to Giorno? They've... the truth is, they've known each other longer here. In another world, far removed from the one they know. In Giorno's story, he is the traitor; the one who turned his back on the ideals he fought for and their friends died for. Giorno's faith in him makes no sense. No matter how many times he has turned it over in his head since that morning in Sardinia, he just doesn't understand it.]
[He just-- he can't--]
[Abruptly, Fugo presses the heels of his hands into his eyes and takes a great, heaving breath. It's pointless, he thinks, to run in circles like this. He doesn't understand. He didn't understand back then either, did he. When his hands fall, his complexion is red and blotchy; he still seems far away, but closer than what he was. He pushes himself up to his feet, lurching forward before he can think better of it.]
Let me see. [He holds his own hands out, palms up. His expression is an odd mix of things-- worried, upset, uncertain. He doesn't know what to do or say to move forward. But, maybe-- it will be easier to figure out, without this distance between them.] Please.